


Virnehn

by Mythalenaste



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, but it is probably not this, idk what you are expecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-09 02:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7783477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythalenaste/pseuds/Mythalenaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Orlesian bard on the run and a clan of Dalish elves facing starvation. An elven actor preparing for his big break. An ancient god seeking a foothold from beyond the Veil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_ “Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say _

_ that we devise their misery. But they _

_ themselves- in their depravity- design _

_ grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.”  _

**—** [ **Homer** ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fauthor%2Fquotes%2F903.Homer&t=ZjUyZGViMGE4NWE5MmYwZWUzNzE4ZmY1NjI3MjQxNTJjMzljODdiZSxFVlozcWppaA%3D%3D) **(** [ **The Odyssey** ](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fbook%2Fshow%2F1381.The_Odyssey&t=ZjM0MTFiODEyY2UzNTZkOGUxZDFiOTAzOTQ2NGFmNWNhNmRhN2E1ZSxFVlozcWppaA%3D%3D) **)**

 

Felicienne gasped for jagged breath, reaching out to clap a blood slippery hand to the doorframe, tears spilling down her cheeks. _How could you, how could you, how could you._ The words echoed in her head in a clanging refrain, the deafening sound of chantry bells a hellish tattoo that chimed in perfect unison. It was noon...it had only been a few hours since- Felicienne took a step and bit back a sob, her wounded side throbbing with agony. _How could I?_ She leaned heavily against the threshold, sliding her hand beneath her jacket coat and pressing hard to stem the hot flow of blood from her knife wound. Poisoned. She’d already taken the antidote after waiting for the vomiting to pass, had needed only the barest amount to counteract the violent trembling that had overtaken her moments after it was inflicted. _It wasn’t a deadly dose...he wanted me to live._ She had to think like that, had to. The reality of Albain’s betrayal is too fresh otherwise.

“I truly did love you, Felicienne. I want you to know that…if you know nothing else, please, know that.” Love is never a word that they have needed to say, never a word that was voiced until now. All those years of looking out for one another, all those shared triumphs and failures that can be summed up in a single phrase. A phrase that spoken this way, spoken now, will mean less than nothing.

“Albain, mon coeur, what are you saying?” Her voice is soft and childlike in her ears, an innocence there she loathes for its sincerity. His back is turned, head bowed and shoulders sagging as if under a great weight. His fingers twitching nervously, the hilt of a simple throwing knife resting in slackened grip, gleaming dangerously in the dim half-light. “You don’t have to do this…”

“You did this to yourself, Felicienne. You had a job. It was so simple, why couldn’t you have just done it?” It’s that moment that the wrongness of his words and actions cements itself in her mind, even if her heart is still slow with pain. _Betrayal_. It was logical...he could either kill her or they would _both_ go down for her ‘mistake’. It made sense. Horrible, heart dropping to the pit of her stomach, mouth going dry and heartbeat pounding sense. No more words need to be said, no pleas made even as they come unbidden to her lips anyway:

“Albain, please-” She’s able to dodge the knife flicked towards her heart, already in motion at the last second. She reaches out in her spin to catch it’s hilt with a flourish that looks like the flailing of a target whose been struck. She clutches it close even as the second catches her low in her right side, burying itself deep and loosing a pained cry from her lips. It misses vital organs by a hairsbreadth but it’s still painful, the hot sting of the steel piercing her flesh maddening in it’s agony. Her sob is shrill as a hunting hawk’s scream as she stumbles back against the desk and knocks papers and books to the floor in an exaggerated fall. He makes the mistake of approaching her where she lies, curled on her side on the carpet and feigning mortal wounds.

Albain, kneeling beside her, reaching out to brush her coppery curls back from her face. He barely has time to register chagrined surprise as she spins the knife in her fingers and slams it through the soft place in his skull, just behind and above his eye socket. He falls with a thud to the sapphire carpet beside her, blood pooling amongst the golden threads of a thousand identical fleur de li’s. A small pendant spills from where it was hidden beneath the white linen of his shirt, loops of brass chain coiling around it. With shaking, bloodied fingers; she picks it up and triggers a small mechanism to unfurl the tiny shred of parchment with it’s simple, succinct message:

_They are coming for you. Flee._

_He knew I wouldn’t be killed so easily, he never intended to murder me for Comtesse La Laurie._ This lie helps her stand a little straighter as she staggers into the Chantry proper, making eye contact with one of the sisters as she does. It’s small, this chantry, of little consequence to anyone. For now it would serve as a sanctuary that the House of Repose dare not encroach on for a grace period of three days...she’d leave tomorrow. Two days they would expect, the fourth or third they would have her cornered, but only taking a single day was madness.

“Reverend Mother! REVEREND MOTHER!” The sister’s frantic cry was a bit too dramatic for Felicienne’s taste but it was earnest in its panic. Felicienne stumbled towards a pew, her hand sliding off its back as she spilled to the floor. The young sister caught her as she fell, panic in her eyes as Felicienne fisted a hand in her robes and dragged her close.

“Get me...Mother Arielle. Promise me. Tell her the Sparrow yet sings and…” It hurt to speak, to stay awake, the blood loss making it hard to think of something tricky to say in the dire situation. Felicienne groaned and tightened her grip on the sister’s habit. “Just tell her she...owes...me.”

The cold stone against her cheek felt as soft as goose down as she slid to the floor, past the floor, into a dark and warm nothingness that was blessedly free of the burning agony of her wounds.

* * *

 

Enansalas awoke with the taste of blood in his mouth and hunger gnawing at his belly. Pallid grey morning light tried to blaze through his eyelids and he groaned and shifted where he lay on his stomach, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Mornings were horrible things, heralding a cessation of nightly passions, a return to wakefulness and boredom. Also, work. Responsibility. A council meeting he was likely already late for. _Fuck mornings._ Lazily, he stretched out a hand to quest across the mess of furs for something to block out the infernal light with. He snatched his palm back with a hiss when he accidentally skimmed across a hot coal, the sting of a painful burn already searing through every drowsy synapse. _Fuck_. He’d fallen asleep close to the brazier again. It was a good thing the camp was always so nightmarishly clammy damp or his yurt would have caught fire long ago.

He opened his eyes properly, ochre gaze glaring out through sleep heavy lids at the heap of furs and embroidery that made up the opulent nest of his bed. Annoyed, Enansalas let out a low growl and drew on his mana, soothing his burn with a flush of ice magic, bringing the reddened flesh of his palm to his lips so he could let a puff of cold breath pass over it.

“Athra...Athra, wake up and douse the fire again.” His voice was husky from sleep as he nudged his bed partner awake. The tangle of limbs occupying the bed beside him and partially atop him stirred languorously, drowsy and slow as a snake uncoiling in the heat of summer. Athra rolled on her back and arched slightly in what he was sure was meant to be an enticing stretch of every lean muscle in her exquisite body...he reached over and placed his ice cold hand on her belly.

Her shriek was worth the ringing pain in his eardrums as she lunged up and away from him, scrambling and stumbling and considerably less sexy as she flopped onto the floor rugs in her haste. Enansalas grinned into the crook of one arm and rolled over on his back, the furs still warm in her wake.

“Ai! What the fuck is wrong with you?” She snapped angrily, dark hair a disheveled mess.

“The fire.” He grumbled into his arm, making a half hearted gesture in it’s direction.

“Douse it yourself, I’m not your mother.” She sniffed, an arrogant tilt to her head as she primly searched the mess of pillows and blankets and furs for her clothing. Her curvaceous body was limed with silver light leaking through the door hanging, goosebumps plain across the flesh of her back and thighs. He clasped his hands behind his neck in a relaxed fashion and watched her tiptoe across the colourful rugs that covered the dirt floor of his yurt with a self-satisfied smirk.

“You’re not going to find your clothes.”

“And why not?”

“Because I burned them in the brazier you forgot to douse.” He stretched and the sweet satisfaction of the movement was made even better by Athra’s squeaky cry of outrage.

“Why would you do that?!”

“Because they smelled like hares blood, Athra. I don’t want that smell in my yurt.” He really didn’t. Athra had some strange ideas about Andruil...well, it was none of his business. Weird customs surrounding Andruil didn’t make Athra any less attractive or the sex any less enjoyable.

“You entitled-! Enansalas, damn you.” She scowled, the stern expression ruined somewhat by her nakedness.

“I said I wouldn’t judge you for wanting me to rub a dead rabbit on your tits, not that I would let you leave blood sodden clothes here to smell.” Enansalas yawned and bared his teeth in a smug grin, Athra’s indignant scoff somehow comforting. The ice cold bucket of water that hit him in the face and caused the hot metal of the brazier to hiss like an angry serpent was _less_ comforting. The wooden pail bounced off his shoulder painfully and he rolled off his mattress and hit the rug covered floor in a tangle of damp bed coverings and fur, cursing as he leapt up and tripped hard over something. Before he could recover, Athra snatched one of his tunics and yanked it on over her head, it’s frayed hem hanging to her mid thigh.

“There. The fire is doused. Enjoy it, Enansalas.” With that, she slipped out and under the back wall of the tent as smooth and quick as an otter, clad in one of his tunics. He groaned softly into the dampened bear fur, the cold water warming to his skin temperature even in the morning chill that made him tremble. _Still...worth it._

Enansalas threw the door hanging aside and stepped out into the cool morning air. Each breath was crisp with the smell of frost and autumn, a bite in his lungs and a chill that invigorated him as he strode through the camp. It was a small collection of yurts and wooden aravels, the red sails stretched taut over weathered timbers that had been reassembled to provide cover from the pervasive snow and rain. Paths had been worn to dirt in the labyrinthine corridors between tents, water dripping off canvas and forming the occasional ankle deep puddle of stagnant water to be skirted as he made his way through the camp, the cold seeping through the thin linen of his breeches. Hearth tenders and artisans and herders made way for him, hunched over their morning cook fires and dropping their gazes as he passed them by, visible through a haze of blue smoke.

The bulk of the hunters were already out ranging far afield...or they should have been. Lately, Sethan’s grasp seemed like it was slipping and his hunters were failing to bring in a sufficient amount of game to feed everyone. Enansalas frowned. None of them had been pulling their weight lately and more often than not they were coming back empty handed. Virnehn needed that game or else it would be another horrible winter of putting pressure on the lesser clans, failing to forage for enough to support themselves and hunting in the cold.

Unlike most clans, where jobs were somewhat exclusive, every member of Virnehn was trained to hunt. They didn’t have enough warm bodies for anyone to take up resources without pulling their weight. Enansalas was capable with a bow, but magic made hunting almost too easy...provided someone could track the scattered game for him. But he hated the cold, he hated having to hunt for anyone besides himself. Besides, hunting on an empty stomach, Andruil’enaste, was never productive. He shuddered and approached the Keeper’s pavilion, bare shoulders thrown back as he strutted inside late to the early morning council.

Enansalas barely checked his speed quickly enough to avoid slamming into the ghostly figure that passed in front of him in a quick, furtive darting movement. He still glanced off the tiny frame and caught a delicate elbow before she could stumble and fall, her cry of startled surprise thin in the early morning. _Mirthadra_.

Her complexion was the paleness of exposed bone, thin, straight hair as white as fresh fallen snow; one side shaved and the other left long and cobwebby loose to veil one side of her face. Mirthadra looked up at him fearfully, limpid pinkish grey eyes fringed with long white lashes, plush lips parted as she caught her panicked breath. Her long, narrow ears were perpetually pinned back and flat against the sides of her head, twitching and flinching in anticipation of threat. His step mother had never seemed as small as she did these days, small and getting perpetually smaller; life amongst Virnehn taking it’s toll on her.

“I’m sorry,” He blurted guiltily, failing to keep the brittleness from his voice. She wordlessly pulled her elbow free of his grasp with a frail strength and dropped her gaze in unspoken apology, pressing past him close enough that he imagined he could feel the fevered, bird quick beating of her heart as she slipped inside ahead of him. He followed, confidence shaken.

It took his eyes a moment to readjust from the white of the melting snow to the gloom of the interior, it’s only light coming from a central brazier, orange coals gleaming in the dimness. The smell of incense and wet furs, canvas and woodsmoke pricked his nose as he took a deep breath. Enansalas looked into the darkness he was making his way through, bold as brass as he strode through the center of the room and felt the eyes on him, perturbed stares and glowers. His lateness was too much, his bearing was too much. He was just overall an invasive and demanding presence and he relished it, taking a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings as he took his place beside Keeper Thelhen in the low, hammock like chair set out for him.

“So nice of you to finally join us, Enansalas.” Thelhen’s voice was cold and jagged as a broken blade, the Dalish accent had an edge of sharpened menace to it. Enansalas met the hooded, grey green gaze and stared him down challengingly.

Thelhen was a rangy figure, thin as a jackal in the way of most of the Clan and yet he took up twice as much space as he needed to, sprawling in his seat with the air of a much younger man to whom the word ‘share’ was something of a mystery. His angular jaw was clenched tight, stern brow knitted with displeasure. A large scar ran from the corner of his nicked right ear and down across the hollow of his cheek, a smaller one bisecting his lip at its edge. The vallaslin of Dirthamen were the inked in a shade of rich, dark wine, the tattoos sharpening his already harsh looks to something villainous. Hair that had once been the colour of old gold and wheatgrass was now silvering with his age; disdaining white in favour of something stormier, the grey of thunderclouds, drawn into a thick braid down his back. His scarred lips twisted into a frown as he glared at Enansalas, his favoured son. Rather than keep holding that implacable regard, he ignored his father and turned his attention to the gathered council instead. He wasn’t about to be sidetracked by Thelhen’s bullying, anyway. The worst(and best) thing you could do to insult Thelhen and win an argument was to ignore him and dismiss him. Against that, Thelhen was next to powerless.

“Of course, Keeper. You know how I love pointless bickering in the morning.” Enansalas murmured, loudly enough that the whole council could hear it. Thelhen made some short, irritated noise that sounded like ‘pfeh’ and turned his accusatory glower on the huntsmaster instead.

“Sethan, resume your quibbling about territory.” He barked,short finger nails chipping at the armrests of his crudely crafted chair with impatience. Sethan made a face and bowed shallowly in acquiescence, annoyance clear.

“Keeper, with all due respect-” Thelhen issued another dismissive noise and rested his chin on one fist, frowning. Sethan continued doggedly over this disrespectful grunt, raising his voice slightly. “-game is scarce and we risk shemlen incursion if we dare to range further afield than we already have.”

“My clan is starving and you fear shemlen? Are our hunters not the fiercest in the Dales? Have we not hidden ourselves deeply enough in these Dirthamen forsaken woods that shemlen are such a threat to us? You are the huntmaster, Sethan. This is _your_ job. Are you telling me you are no longer capable of providing for and protecting this clan?” There was a heavy silence that greeted these words, rife with unspoken rage. Sethan looked thin lipped and white faced, seconds from either shouting or storming from the yurt.

Enansalas let out a huff of breath and massaged his temples. They were both right, in their way. Sethan was being cautious with every reason to be, but providing no solutions. Thelhen was busy going for Sethan’s throat when he should have been examining possible compromises or just outright stripping Sethan of his title altogether. Talking about the problem, but not solving it. Stupid. Circular and stupid. Meanwhile, Athra and Melaris waited with all the patience of starving wolves circling cornered prey; eager to take their father’s place and just as eager to fight each other for it. It was time to throw one of them a bone and if not break the stalemate, at least introduce a hint of blood to still waters:

“Melaris, do you have any suggestions?” Enansalas’ words were a mistake, however, and before Melaris could answer him the head herdsmistress pounced.

“Oh yes, ask another worm brained hunter. Don’t bother consulting anyone else in this clan-” In her place beside Thelhen, Mirthadra winced at the raised voices and shifted further back in her chair in discomfort. Athra, ever the opportunist, snarled over the herdsmistress’ ineffectual warbling:

“Hamin! Why would anyone ask you? Your job is halla tending and you’re bad at it. The herd is sick and thin and inbred. So many of the halla die of illness and lameness you should have been replaced a decade ago. So shut up, Talsa, and let those who actually do something worthwhile speak.” Athra brushed back her mane of dark hair and stole the moment from her brother, a calculated move if ever Enansalas had seen one. “Keeper, we would be better served to move camp to somewhere with game that was more plentiful. We could hunt what we need without risking notice from any human trophy hunters.”

“We’d have to fight another clan for it, though. That’s what she _isn’t_ saying.” Melaris hissed, baring his teeth at his sister’s triumphant speech. “She’d have us warring among ourselves-”

“Or maybe I’d just have the hunters actually doing their jobs instead of scouting for raids that will never happen because our numbers are already too diminished-” Athra’s lip curled at his pronouncement and took a threatening step towards her elder brother, hands clenched into fists. Her words were as sharp and biting as the wind that whistled around the yurt in an ever increasing and frantic pitch.

“You’d rather we go after each other than the shemlen-” Melaris growled, jerking his shoulder out of Sethan’s cautionary grip and advancing.

“Enough!” Thelhen bellowed, letting a bright purple flare of sparks crackle in his fist with a brief whipcrack of thunderous sound. Everyone flinched and Enansalas’ ears rang, popping slighty as he worked his jaw. Mirthadra recoiled so sharply and with such a cry of fear that she seemed to be trying to press herself into the wood of her chair and disappear completely. Thelhen continued to glare furiously at everyone for a minute, sure he was impressing his point. Enansalas waited a beat before speaking the words Thelhen wanted to hear:

“What do you suggest, Keeper?” Capitulating was better than forcing Mirthadra to endure more yelling. Also, the argument was going nowhere and he was sick of it. Thelhen pretended to consider it for a moment before he spoke, voice hoarse from shouting:

“Eralen, speak. If you’ve been listening at all.” Enansalas perked up suddenly, sitting a bit straighter in his chair. He hadn’t expected his half brother to be here for some reason...despite being First, Eralen seemed to prefer all his other duties to sitting among the council. His only real reason for being present at all was likely because he was being forced. Eralen took after his mother that way: easy to cajole and easier to bully. Thelhen’s attempts to inspire backbone had been not only fruitless but detrimental and Eralen jumped in terror at the mention of his name, clearing his throat and reciting what he had been coached to say.

“We dispatch a small contingent of hunters to seek out Clan Irassal and bring their huntmistress back here to negotiate; that way we don’t just encroach on territory without so much as warning possible allies first. If two clans stand together, perhaps we’ll have a better chance of withstanding any shemlen hunters seeking us out.” Eralen’s thin, reedy voice carried in the small space and the council seemed to greet it with an appreciative silence. A good plan, put to them by the First. Enansalas rolled his eyes and rested a chin on his hand, elbow digging into his thigh as he sighed loudly.

“What an original thought.” He exclaimed, barely keeping the grin off his face at Thelhen’s incensed look. He wasn’t really trying to sabotage Eralen though, so he smiled over at his brother and inclined his head slightly. “I like it.”

Thelhen scoffed irritably, glaring at the council as if expecting them to argue. When no one did- for once- the rest of the meeting passed in peaceful irritation. Enansalas pondered what the plan might mean, his thoughts turning to his mother. She was the huntsmistress of which Eralen spoke, the true power of Clan Irassal. He had seen Sylbora maybe a handful of times throughout his youth and adolescence, the brief childhood spent with her up until the age of seven a memory so dim it nearly escaped recollection entirely. A smug smile on thin but beautiful lips, elegantly arched brows and honey coloured eyes that slanted like a cat’s above her high, full cheekbones. A quick laugh that seemed too easy and frequent to always have been sincere but was nonetheless symphonic in its delight. Hair as dark as raven’s wings and a voice that rasped with a strange dulcet, a blade anointed with bitter poison oil.

She was known throughout the Dales as a fierce and capable leader, making Irassal a clan that rivaled Virnehn in it’s influence. It was a carefully crafted effort, intentional and aggressive in pursuit of a more favourable position amid the clans of the region. He suspected that even his birth had been a ploy, to curry Thelhen’s favour and place a child loyal to her at the heart of Clan Virnehn. For all the Dalish spoke of loving their people and welcoming other’s of their kind, all bets were off when times were hard. And The Dales was a lean place, two clans vying for the best hunting grounds just made it leaner...gave the lesser clans ideas, too. More Clans warring with them was the last thing Virnehn needed. The system worked because there was only one larger clan. _If we could just establish trade with the others...but that will never happen._

No Clan outside Orlais would willingly help them. Dales clans were the descendants of those left over from the Exalted March, the only surviving elves who had run rather than be cut down when the battle was lost. The oath of the Dales had been just words to them, just pretty words shouted at an overwhelming force of shemlen to make soldiers feel brave before they died. They’d done the smart thing, but not the brave thing; and for that, the elvhen seemed to have a long memory. Cowards, they called them, Orlesian clans are descended from cowards. _We failed to protect the new elven homeland and then we never left it despite losing the war. Clutching the ashes and crying over what was doesn’t bring it back. We’re fighting over a corpse that only we care about for a lost honour we can never get back…_ he thought miserably, picking at a loose thread and staring into the dying brazier. Leaders like Sylbora and Thelhen at each other’s throats over who has the biggest share of the shitheap they lived in. It got incredibly tiresome after awhile. Strong personalities shouting down the frailer, bludgeoning those who still might have something to offer into submission.

The meeting passed quickly after the decision about Irassal was settled and Enansalas kept silent for most of it. The chair he was sitting in was nearly unbearably uncomfortable...that was typical of Virnehn crafting. _At least it’s keeping me awake..._ Beside him, Thelhen slouched in his chair like a child. Melaris kept trying to catch Enansalas’ eye but he ignored him; he’d done all he could, but Melaris had let his sister steal the show anyway. It was a shame intelligence and a militarily savvy mind never seemed to go together. It was stifling, being in a clan with so much unrealised potential. Finally, the interminably long meeting came to a close and the various members shuffled out with eager feet but a heavy and resentful reluctance. It always ended that way, even if the decisions made were positive.

“You’ll take lunch with us, Enansalas.” Thelhen growled, an order and not a question. If Enansalas was any less starving, he’d have stood up and left without dignifying the command with any obedience. Mithadra stood without being asked, rising to fetch or prepare some sort of meal, her white robe sitting heavily on her narrow shoulders as she slipped out of the tent. He watched her lose herself in the snowy brightness of the daylight beyond, disappearing as soundlessly and meekly as a mouse.

“So,” Thelhen stood up and walked by the central brazier, igniting it with an absent wave of his hand; flames licking the bed of red coals in a violent resurgence, the brief flare illuminating the opulently decorated tent. From where he sat, Enansalas watched as the light caught Eralen’s eyes and made them gleam like silver coins in his sallow, drawn face. “what do you think of the decision to contact Irassal?”

“Seeing Mother again will be nice, it’s been at least a year.”

Thelhen had recently developed a tic where his eyebrow seemed to be trying desperately to part company with his face. It was generally triggered by Enansalas’ sarcasm but lately, the tic appeared every time he brought up something ‘uncomfortable’ in a cheerful manner. Or even just something that made Thelhen think very hard about past sins. Sylbora’s and his relationship was definitely a past sin, if not an ongoing sin. A sin committed in perpetuity that was poorly hidden from all the parties involved who had a significant stake in the matter. Thelhen grunted and lit some incense to chase away the wet fur smell, even if all it did was mask the pungent stink with a heady and resinous scent, coils of grey smoke unspooling lazily across the distance between them.

“I had hoped to put off Irassal’s visit until the time came for your trial but it seems their coming cannot be delayed. Are we truly losing so much ground to these shemlen? What could they possibly seek that they’re venturing this far into the wilderness?” The question was only half rhetorical and Thelhen looked over at his son as though he might have some answers for him. “Do you know? Does the Threadspinner offer you any guidance?”

“No,” Enansalas scoffed at the question, rolling his eyes. At the perturbed look on Thelhen’s face and Eralen’s panicked intake of breath, he continued: “No, Dirthamen does not offer any guidance.”

“Yet, he doesn’t offer you guidance _yet_.” His half brother murmured, thin voice poignant in the silence. Enansalas met the cornflower blue eyes, their colour so rare in Clan Virnehn, so different from his own golden hazel. Eralen had taken after his mother in most aspects; slim and narrow shouldered, hollow cheeked and though he was no albino, he had inherited her paleness. Silver blonde hair was a messy disorder, shorn short with clumsy hands and sticking up in places. He was barely past his seventeenth summer but trying to hold himself with the unassailable air of pride and Dalish dignity that Thelhen expected from his son and First. In the rare moments when he spoke up without being asked, he almost succeeded. “You’re not a full scion.”

“Yet.” Thelhen echoed, something unreadable in his gaze. “He will be the Black Tongue soon, and speak for the fate of the Dalish. It is not so far away that we cannot all wait for it with patience.”

Mithadra returned then, bearing their meal, two hearthmistresses accompanying her with baskets and carafes of halla milk. Enansalas breathed a deep sigh of relief, rising to help the women with their preparations. The younger of the two hearthmistresses shot him a grateful look through her lashes, one hand accidentally brushing over his as she placed the bowls on the low table. He smiled at her and watched the blush rise enticingly in her pale cheeks. She was bold, but apparently not _that_ bold. Thelhen watched disapprovingly and it was almost comforting to be glowered at for something that had nothing to do with ancient religious rites.

Enansalas’ smug satisfaction lasted the bare few seconds it took for the shy young woman to return his smile and then promptly slop some grey black sausage into the crude wooden bowl in front of him.The gamey, heavy aroma of parboiled organs and scrap meat-the last of their stores-was simultaneously mouthwatering and stomach turning. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth and the tasteless offal sat heavy on his tongue. He swallowed hard and didn’t spare the hearthmistress another glance.

* * *

 

The smell of Prophet’s Laurel, soft and golden sweet, perfumed the air as Felicienne stirred, silk soft bedding under her cheek and the radiant warmth of a crackling hearthfire enveloping her as surely as the goosedown bedding. The gentleness of her waking was juxtaposed by the sharp and brutal reality of her knife wound as she rolled onto her right hip and sucked in a surprised gasp of pain. She bolted upright, hands slipping under her pillow for the knife that should have been there and wasn’t. _Not my pillow, not my bed-!_

The events of the past evening came back to her in a haze as she sat up and assessed her surroundings, feeling the roughened cloth of the bandages wrapped around her middle catching on the fabric of the nightgown someone had dressed her in. Mid afternoon sunlight spilled across the titian and rose tiles that covered the floor, a beautiful mosaic that wound it’s circumspect way across the floor a grim depiction of Andraste on her pyre. Soft, seashell pink curtains billowed in the slight breeze from an open window, a small roof garden visible on the short balcony walkway between the two towers beyond, embrium and other herbs dancing soothingly back and forth with the gentle winds ebb and flow. The movement was sleepy and it lulled her with it’s continuous swaying, bells chiming for the third hour of noon. Felicienne took a deep breath and glanced around the room:the quarters were small and sparsely furnished by Orlesian standards, but what they lacked in personal accoutrements they made up for in the quality of the furniture.

Any visible wood was pale birch, the dresser elaborately appointed, the brass handles inlaid with white opal fashioned to depict a woman’s face. Felicienne had never been able to figure out how the pinchy, forbiddingly regal visage that adorned everything from belt buckles to bedframes to chamber pots was supposed to pay homage to Andraste and after repeated slaps on the wrists she had finally stopped asking. Bizarre as Andraste’s face as a decorative accent may be, it at least helped reassure her she was still in Orlais. Cream, blue, gold. A mirror, a small desk with a chair whose legs curved and curled at their base like fiddlehead ferns, it’s plush cushion cream and gold silk.

There was a sudden movement from outside and Felicienne’s attention snapped back to the window, clutching the creamy satin cloth in her hands in preparation to throw it off. But, instead of assassins, a pure white cat trotted along the narrow railing, walking the knife’s edge between the tiny garden and the sapphire roof tiles below; pausing to sweep its grey tipped tail beneath it as it sat, rasping a rough pink tongue over a paw in feline disinterest. Felicienne collapsed back onto the pillow and threw an arm over her forehead, sucking in a wearying breath.

“Good day, Lady Sparrow.” With a shriek, Felicienne threw one of the decorative round pillows at Reverend Mother Arielle’s head and spilled out of bed, taking most of the bed coverings with her. Swearing at the pain in her side, she tried to peek back over the top of the mattress with as much dignity as she could muster.

Arielle had been sitting- no, _lurking_ \- in the corner to her left, the one place Felicienne had neglected to look. The older human woman was clearly fighting a smile, smoothing the sky blue and gold skirt of her chantry robes; half finished embroidery in her hands. The only immediately apparent murder weapon she held was a threaded needle which she stuck through her work and set it down, toeing it out of easy reach and holding up her hands in mock surrender.

“Je viens en paix, I swear it. I just want to talk to you, if you’re of a mind to listen.” Arielle reached out and patted the mattress, leaning back in her chair with a pleasant smile. Slowly, Felicienne levered herself back into bed. Her wound had been bandaged, the frilly nightdress she’d been loaned something she’d have never worn in a million years. _This abomination is why I wasn’t able to at least leap out of bed in a timely fashion._ She plucked at it disparagingly, but her side hurt too much to rip it off over her head without potentially getting tangled in it and embarrassing herself further. Instead, she tugged a pillow into her lap and it hugged it to her stomach defensively.

“So? Why did you put me in a room with windows, Arielle? Do you think this is funny?” Arielle raised one perfectly shaped brow and her smile became more of a smirk. Had the situation been different, Felicienne had to grudgingly admit that she would have been smug, too. If Arielle had any idea of how deeply Felicienne had erred, she would never have let her cross the threshold and claim succour for even a moment.

“If you wanted me to put you in a lightless dungeon you should have specified. You must make a special request for that sort of thing. Just like in the old days, mon petit oiseau.” _My little bird. I am not so little anymore and we are a long way from Alyons._ Felicienne scooted to put the headboard at her back and met Arielle’s soft brown gaze with a rueful glower. The urge to groan _mamae_ at her was almost overwhelming. That would have wiped the smirk off her face; there were few things Arielle disliked more than being called ‘mother’. Which, considering her title, was a bit ironic.

“Oh? I was unaware this Chantry was a front for a brothel, Arielle. And here I thought you’d reformed.” Arielle’s pleasant expression immediately soured and she pursed her plump lips and reached down to pick up her embroidery once more, clucking her tongue in disapproval.

“Don’t be rude, Felicienne. You know how I despise rudeness.” Arielle reached under her chair and withdrew a small package, unwrapping it carefully and holding out a pastry. A moment of suspicious silence passed and with a small, delicate snort of offense, Arielle bit into the pastry herself. “It isn’t poisoned, I promise you. Bards. You are all so paranoid-”

“Albain is dead.” Arielle went rigid, the pastry dropping to the bed with a small anticlimactic thump. Felicienne retrieved it and took a small bite, chewing the buttery, sugar glazed bread without truly tasting it.

“Are you certain?” Arielle’s tone was brittle as thin ice and shattered china, her hands clasped suddenly in her lap to still their shaking.

“Yes.” _Keep it simple, it is hard to lie to someone who knows you well_. Omissions were easier. “I saw him die.”

“You couldn’t stop it?” Felicienne took another bite of the pastry and chewed, swallowing it down like penance. She let the tears well in her eyes, felt the hollow pain of sorrow in her throat. _If it looks like I am crying for his death and not for killing him, all the better._

“There was nothing I could do. I tried to...I _tried…_ ” The chair squeaked across the floor as Arielle stood up and settled next to her on the mattress. Felicienne covered her face with her hands and let the sobs pour from her, shoulders shaking as the only mother she’d ever really known wrapped her in her embrace.

“Non, ma petit fille, non. I am so sorry, my poor, sweet girl.” Arielle stroked her hair, careful not to be rough around her ears; her voice throaty with unshed tears. Felicienne could hear her heartbeat through the fabric of her chantry robe, feel it against one tear stained cheek. She hadn’t had the time to grieve, to regret, until now. _Could I have convinced him to spare me? To risk himself?_ Somehow, she doubted it. _It was him or me...and I like living._ Arielle, if she knew, would surely throw her out and deny her sanctuary. She had raised them both, but it was no secret that humans cleaved to their own. An elven bard? Murdering her well-connected shem lover? Even though they were _both_ bards, all that mattered was how it looked. All Arielle would see was that Felicienne had forced Albain to pay the price for her indiscretion and she would hate her for that selfishness.

Felicienne sobbed, crying for herself, for Albain and for her tragic ‘mistake’ in the Game. Arielle held her tightly, securely, patting her back as she trembled with the overwhelming force of her grief. Felicienne curled tighter, clutching fistfuls of the blue fabric at Arielle’s slender shoulders and tried to muffle the hot press of tears. Arielle hushed her, her own tears silent as they streaked down her cheeks.

“We will find who is responsible, Felicienne, and we will make them pay for what they’ve done. I swear to you.” The steely resolve in Arielle’s voice was chilling and she pulled back from Felicienne, pressing her lips quickly and firmly to her forehead and taking her face in her hands. Arielle met Felicienne tear blurred gaze with a determined expression on her lined face. “ I promise, my little bird. There is not a place in Orlais that they will be able to hide.”

“Yes, Mamae.” Felicienne sniffled, brushing away the tears and clearing her throat. Arielle stroked her cheek with a thumb and pulled an embroidered handkerchief from the recesses of her robe and dabbed Felicienne’s face with it, pressing the dampened cloth into her palms and holding her hands. She squeezed Felicienne’s shaking fingers tightly in her own and sucked in a quick breath, forcing herself to recover.

“Albain will be avenged. Just tell me what I can do to help you flee your hunters safely, mon cherie, and it is done. Anything you need.” _Anything I need...would she help me at all if she knew the truth? How long can I keep up this charade? What if she finds out and uses my trust to betray me?_ Felicienne’s heart pounded in her chest and the silence stretched between them, Arielle’s earnesty undiminished. If she went around distrusting everyone, if she panicked then she was as good as dead. _Be quick and clever and you shall never be caught. Quick, clever and invisible._ Felicienne covered one of Arielle’s hands with her own and met her eyes unflinchingly.

“I need out of Verchiel. Do you know a way?”


	2. Intrepid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rehearsal, an assassination and a reunion.

_“Tell me who admires and loves you, and I will tell you who you are.”_  
**―[Antoine de Saint-Exupéry](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fauthor%2Fshow%2F1020792.Antoine_de_Saint_Exup_ry&t=YjQ3NmM2Nzk4NGY3MTc4MGZkNWM5YTNlZTg3YTllYTJhZDU5N2YxZSxLRWZuSnJKUQ%3D%3D) **

* * *

 

“STOP! Stop, that was terrible! Nadine, where was the line? You’re hopeless!” Legrand stormed out from behind the curtain where he’d been waiting, mustache in disarray as he fluttered up to his actress, gesticulating wildly in his distress. Renard stepped back to allow the plump shemlen passage between them, dodging Legrand’s windmilling arms. Across the stage from him, Nadine backpedaled and tried to ward off Legrand swatting her with one of the few intact scripts they possessed, unbound pages littering the floor with each successful smack.

“It clearly says-”

“You’ve changed the script fifteen times, Paul-” Nadine let out a squeak as the hefty binding of the script thwacked her on the nose and recoiled in dismay. Trembling and fast turning a vibrant shade of puce, Legrand threw his arms into the air and collapsed on the stage.

“Nadine, you are-! You are obscuring my view-”

“Clouding my vision,” Renard corrected softly, only to have the quivering script pointed at him shakily, Legrand’s face suddenly in raptures of inspired fervor.

“YES. What the elf said! Nadine, you are _clouding my vision_! Sacred Andraste on her pyre, he is a genius. Victor, I am going to need your editing expertise to whip this into shape-”

“You’re changing it AGAIN?” Nadine cried out in horror, flinching as Legrand brandished the script in her direction like a weapon.

“ShushshushSHUSH!! My vision, Nadine! My vision is paramount!” Legrand made an expansive gesture towards the open roof of the theatre, the shaft of grey light illuminating his upturned face like a sign from the Maker.

Renard sighed deeply and pulled at the back of his neck, his skin itching under his mask. It was hot in the modest theatre, almost sweltering in the pervasive summer heat. He was too hot and drowsy…truth be told, he was bored as well. They were only rehearsing this scene because they were waiting for the lead actor to finally make his way to the theatre.

Renard’s lip curled, how he hated that man. The ridiculous shem didn’t deserve the lead of the young Duke de Suille, he didn’t suit it and he never shut up about how much he thought elves were crowding out actors of substance. Substance! The only substance that shem had was the substance he tracked all over the stage on his way back from blowing his pay at the seediest of taverns. Maker, if Renard wasn’t part of the performance, Gregoire would have lost the entire script and related revenues to the Thieves Guild. Instead, they kept containing the situation with increasing irritation.

_“Honestly, Victor, we can’t keep doing this. I keep giving up this con and you know how much it hurts me to keep letting these sots loose. It’s like tossing back the catch of the day, all because you want to play at having a ‘real’ job-”_

_“Don’t call me Victor, the shems call me that now. It’s Renard. I’m not ‘playing’ I do have a real job-”_

_“You have a gift, ‘Renard’. And you’re wasting it to impress some shems by being their dancing bear-”_

_“I have a career! A real career that isn’t stealing what other people have worked for-”_

_“Because they have had opportunities to work for it, Victor! We will never have that because of what we are, who we are. That mask and that cloth might hide your ears but never forget: you are an elf in Orlais. A rabbit. The shem I keep bringing back to you? He has the real part. He’ll always get the real part and you’ll be working twice as hard to always be second best and you know it-”_

_“Shem this, shem that. You’re obsessed with what the shems have and what we don’t-”_

_“Yes, I am, because I’m a thief! That is how I make my living, how we should all make our living. Papae always said-”_

_“Papae is dead-”_

_“And you are pissing on his grave by sleeping with shemlen for parts-”_

It was then that, rather without preamble, Renard hauled off and hit his brother. Very hard. So that was the last time he could expect help from that dubious quarter; from now on he had to watch Adelard himself. Another chore to add to the ever growing list of thankless tasks, little ways he helped and never got noticed. Legrand’s voice, quavering and insistent as the buzzing of a bee, drew him back to the present.

“Victor? Victor. Ah, there you are. You always seem a million miles away, boy.” Renard took a deep breath and unfastened the ribbons holding his mask in place, carefully removing the guise and placing it in the box with it’s plush velvet lining.

The mask was a work of art; behind the times now as it had been passed down through this troupe since time immemorial. The mask stared up at him with empty but merry eyes, it’s emerald enamel gleaming in the halflight. Copper swirls defined it’s eyes and mouth, a rakish smirk shaped into the metal in a perpetual grin. Lapis lazuli and peridot gleamed where they were set in the cocky tilt of the brow, the finest copper wire set in the place of eyebrows in an artful and decorous design. The mask of the young male lead, Gregoire’s mask…the shem had run off with the wrong lead mask by mistake, taking instead the simpler one intended for the understudy.

Legrand had not even noticed the difference, which was either a testament to the man’s poor eyesight or a willingness to overlook Gregoire’s various excesses. Taking any mask belonging on a stage was foolish, it’s not as though he needed the actual stage mask to prove he was an actor. The entire troupe had specially tooled leather masks that indicated their affiliation with the theatre and their various patrons. It was a special honour to wear them, as distinctive as a blacksmith’s apron or a coachman’s livery. Adelard wandering off with props was not only stupid but served next to no function save for the bragging rights. Renard sighed deeply and the stage hand closed the lid of the chest and held a kerchief out to him, interrupting his reverie. Renard took it and, wiping some of the makeup and sweat off his face, turned to Legrande. The small, portly shemlen man looked up at Renard with such hope it was hard to be resentful of him.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you could do me a favour, my boy-”

“I was hoping to get some lunch before we started editing, actually.” Maker, please. Legrand looked a bit crestfallen by this but cleared his throat and recovered, beaming up at Renard with an unassailable strength of spirit.

“Of course, it’s not that, in any case. Well, not _just_ that.” It gets worse? What does he want now? “I was wondering if you could find it in your heart to maybe locate Gregoire? Just keep an eye out for him and an ear to the ground. He’s not usually this late.”

Renard bit back his groan and smiled at Legrand wanly, nodding in acquiescence. The delighted expression on the shems face almost made agreeing to do him a favour-because it _was_ a favour, Paul was careful never to _order_ him to do anything-worth the hit to his pride. The shem clapped him on the shoulder and smiled at him.

“Oh marvelous! Truly marvelous! You are a gift, Victor! Merci, Merci, you magnificent man! Now, run along. Don’t let me keep you, you know how I am; give me more than a moment to talk and I can go on all day-” Renard sidled around Legrand, and still smiling, edged offstage and  ducked behind the heavy curtains, pursued across the crowded theatre by Legrand’s effusive oratory.

Renard slipped through the dimness of the backstage assemblage, his superior darklight vision letting him easily avoid any obstacles and passing by some silent stage hands as he went. Most of the stagehands were elves for this specific reason; but for those who were not, magelights purchased at extortionate prices were suspended at various intervals. They emitted a soft, creamy light and grew in concentration as he reached the costuming and prop chamber, hoping to sneak past-

“AH! Rabbit! Turn out your pockets.” Renard’s shoulders tensed and he turned to see the miniscule but no less annoying dwarven props mistress, glowering up at him from where she had been lurking behind an old scratched table.

“I haven’t stolen anything, Petunsha.” She glared with beady eyes, her face overpowdered and just on the waning side of middle age, her mouth pulled down into a puckered frown.

“I believe you…but only because I sewed your pockets shut last time that costume passed my cutting table.” Renard scoffed- _of course, can’t trust the knife ear not to steal everything not nailed down_ -and backed away as she advanced, reaching out and setting a hand on the door on the other side of which freedom resided, so close he could practically taste the stink of the back alley. Petunsha poked him in the chest with one beringed finger, her eyes narrowing so much behind her half moon spectacles she looked even more like an irritated shrew than she had before.

“Where are you going in it, anyway? It’s very expensive and I won’t have you-” He hated being called rabbit and he hated being accused of theft. He slipped his half mask off a hook where he’d left it to make a quick escape, tucking it behind his back and interrupting her tirade.

“Destroying it like Gregoire does every time you let him take it out on the town? He’s been running around with his mask, Petunsha.” The woman glowered at him and opened her mouth to object, only for him to continue over her in increasingly agitated tones. “But I suppose it’s FINE to let the _shem_ who has been-”

“He slips me some of his pay to-” 

 “Oh, he’s certainly been slipping you _something-_ ” Renard ducked the sandbag she threw and kicked the back door open, watching her recoil and squint away from the light before he slammed it shut. He braced himself against it and the door bucked sharply as he tried to bolt it. Giving up and  taking off as fast as his legs could carry him, he left Petunsha yelling into the empty alley in his wake.

* * *

“Yes! THAT IS ME. I am the Duke Le Suille!” Gregoire leaned across the bar, grinning at the elven woman across the open air cafe. She continued to give him the cold shoulder, glaring at the mug of ale between her hands and muttering into it as angrily as any onshore sailor. Well, it was her loss. He turned his incandescent smile on the dwarven man cleaning glasses behind the opulently appointed bar.

“Stop that.” The dwarf grunted, shaking his head and topping up Gregoire’s glass.

“Stop what, meisurreee?” The Orlesian accent had been hard to perfect, but he was finally getting better at it.

“The grinning. Like a sodding idiot.”

“You’re a tough crowd.” Adelard fired back, feeling a little crestfallen and taking a sip of the ale. It was alright, not as good as the stuff at the Petite Perle, but this place was a bit of a dive. Gregoire drummed his fingers on the scarred bar and hummed a little, looking around for the person he was allegedly supposed to meet. This morning, quite out of the blue, the prettiest woman he’d ever paid to sleep with him had slipped him a note. Come to the last cafe on _La Voie Divine_ , your help is desperately needed. The likelihood of a tryst had him skipping his morning rehearsal. Besides, dodging responsibilities and attending a clandestine meeting with what he hoped would be an even prettier girl seemed like something the Young Duke Le Suille would do. If anything, this was like…practical rehearsal.

The meeting was simply confirmation of what he had always thought: Orlais was an exciting place, the place he was meant to be. No matter what his parents had said back on the farm, about him having nothing in his future but sheepherding. He was an actor now, with a mask on his face and a song in his heart. No more sheep, no more mud, no more Ferelden peasant life for him.

He turned in his chair to face the street and it’s colourful assemblage of travelers. The sun was high in the midnoon sky, warmth playing across the red and orange street tiles. This particular cafe was close to the chantry, the beautiful building at the center of the city, bisecting it’s richer and poorer districts evenly. _All peoples are equal in the eyes of the Maker._ Every main road lead out from that central point like in the rays of _Le Soleil du Createur_ , like one massive sundial. the Verchiel was one of the more rural of Orlais’ baronies-his nose wrinkled just thinking of the sheep-but at it’s heart it was this: a small city, with a fainting of nobles that ruled it from estates safely ensconced in its rolling countryside, occasionally squabbling viciously yet quietly over ownership of such a chantry held jewel. It was a microcosm of orlesian life, the epicenter of the arts.

Nobles and the poorer classes walked the same streets this close to the Chantry, the stark differences in the classes evident even with Andrastianism’s attempts to hide them. Gregoire had always felt ashamed of his simple farm life, of growing up in the Ferelden mud. Here in Orlais, he had given himself a new name, a new life, an entirely new identity. He could wear his costume on the streets and the mask, though not a perfect rendition of the noble masks, still gave him the appearance of wealth. For a moment, he might be confused with those nobles, he might be seen as something more. And that was worth any price.

“You! Rabbit, get me something to drink!” The nobleman had appeared while Gregoire’s focus was elsewhere and the sound of the commanding voice so sudden and so close startled him slightly, ale slopping cold over his fingers. The man wasn’t talking to him, but to the pretty elven woman Gregoire had flirted with earlier. Behind the nobleman, a servant stood in attendance holding the leash to a large white mastiff. It was slighter than a mabari and less friendly looking, the set of it’s large jaw tight and forbidding. Its ears had been cropped but were pointing forward, small eyes focused on the object of its master’s attention and every muscle rigid.

Of all the things that Gregoire had given up to come here and experience life as an Orlesian, the only thing he truly missed about his homeland was the mabari. Not everyone was worthy of a mabari’s regard or loyalty and he’d seen very few in Orlais. But dogs like this white mastiff were popular among the nobility. Hunting dogs, they called them. But then he’d seen the hounds they used to hunt while ‘entertaining’ some of Legrand’s Players patrons and they simply weren’t the same. In fact, he’d only seen these white dogs go after one thing…

“ELF! Knife ear, are you deaf? I said ‘fetch me a drink’!” The dog leapt up from it’s sitting position and its cropped ears perked at the nobleman’s raised voice. Gregoire watched the elf woman tense, her own ears pinning flat against her head in response to the dog’s throaty growl.

Gregoire wondered what that would be like, to have hounds trained to kill elves. He wondered if you could get mabari to do such a thing, to kill like that and with such little cause. He thought how horrible, to see dogs trained up from puppies to become nothing more than one more weapon in the Orlesian’s arsenal. It wasn’t fair, he realised. Perhaps for the first time in his relatively short existence that had been hithertofor bereft of true revelations, he realised how unfair it was. To the dogs, to the elves. Ferelden wasn’t like this at all…he used to think the worst scourge that could afflict a country was ‘mud’. Orlais was…spiritual mud. Moral muck, hidden by all the window dressing and frippery an incredibly rich country could afford.

“I’m not your servant, shemlen. And I don’t work here.” That was dangerous for her, denying a noble. The dwarven bartender looked alarmed and Gregoire stood up. He didn’t really know why he was standing up or what he was planning to do about the escalating situation, only that it was something to avert a disaster. And it was only then, with his head swimming in the heat of the day, that it registered how much he’d had to drink. He felt weightless and warm, euphoric…it wasn’t unlike the calm of being on stage, actually. Onstage and in character.

“Ser,” He addressed the nobleman who turned to sneer at him, looking him up and down once in cursory disgust.

“Who the fuck are you?” Gregoire swayed a little and clutched the countertop for support. Behind the man, he saw a little chantry sister watching him and looking increasingly nervous. Everyone probably looked nervous, giddy with anticipation of what he would do next. An adoring crowd. Adelard poked the Orlesian man in his chest, hard.

“I am the Duke le Suille,” He moved and put himself between the nobleman and the elf woman, still not quite sure what he was doing. The chantry woman ghosted up to his side, clutching something in her hands. A letter? Was this who he was supposed to meet? Better impress her. “ I am the Duke Le Suille and I say that you leave my…my…servant alone, immediately!”

“Servant?!” The elven woman snapped from behind him but he ignored her.

“You should teach your ‘servants’ better manners-” The man pushed him again, harder this time and Gregoire stepped back a bit, unbalanced. “-your mask is cheap, your title I’ve never even heard of and-”

It all happened very fast after that. A man Gregoire hadn’t noticed grabbed him and turned him around, slamming his back hard against the bar. His head bounced hard off the wood and he gasped with the pain of it, dazed. There was something killing cold against his throat, liked a shard of ice. He still felt warm, distant with the strength of the drink in his system. The man pinning him to the bar had a fistful of his costume and Gregoire registered with some dismay that it was ripping. Petunsha would have him by the balls if he ruined it. Gregoire put up his hands in surrender and opened his mouth to speak, only for a sharp accent unlike anything he’d ever heard before, brittle as broken glass and deep as the rush of a tide on a shore, to cut through his defense: “The Duke Le Suille? The famed actor? Precisely who I was looking for.” The cold against his throat withdrew, Gregoire caught his breath in relief. That had looked like it was going to get ugly for a moment-

The knife plunged into his chest so swiftly and so suddenly there was no time to even muster a winning smile for an adoring fan. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go, Gregoire thought as the man released him, letting him fall to his knees. The agony defied description, like an immense burning sting that worsened with each frantic, desperate flutter of his heart against the cold blade. It pumped furiously, hot blood ruining the silk of his costume, dripping down his front to pool across the tiles as people started to scream. Gregoire looked up at his murderer’s unfamiliar face and gripped the hilt of the dagger buried in his chest with shaking hands.

“Oh no, Victor. Don’t bother getting up. You’re precisely where all elves belong: on their knees.” The voice was horrible, Gregoire decided as he tipped forward. Not just because of it’s accent or because of the things the man said, but because of how he said them. Because of how much hate was behind them. _But I’m not an elf, but I’m not him! I wasn’t supposed to die…_

* * *

“Oi! Come here.” Someone yanked hard on Renard’s collar, shoving him into a narrow alley. He squirmed and tried to extricate himself, reaching for the tiny knife on his belt, only to find a familiar hand still his wrist. _Katrine_.

What do you want-” His younger sister clapped a hand over his mouth, shaking her head and dragging him down the alley. They came out onto a narrower road bathed in sunlight and she pulled him down another winding corridor, ducking laundry hung from lines and scooting past a wrought iron gate. “-Kat, I am busy-”

“Shush, Renard. Here,” She gripped him by the front of his tunic and tugged him out into a shaded pathway that smelled of freshly baked bread, somewhere near the artisanal portion of the market district, five roads over from where he should be. Renard was readying himself to complain when he saw her expression and balked. Katrine had clearly been crying and was doing a poor job of hiding it, her pale skin splotchy in some places and her short cropped, dark hair framing her narrow face and sticking to her sweaty forehead in places. She looked him over, biting her lip for a nervous moment before she threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears. “I-I-I…it was horrible! That shem, Renard!”

“What? What shem? Kat, slow down-”

“The stupid one! The one who always needed looking after, the one in your play! He’s dead, Renard! An assassin killed him, right in the middle of the La Voie Divine! Right in front of me! It was too fast for me to do anything-” He hugged her back just as tightly, trying to understand what she meant. “Gregoire? Gregoire is dead?”

“Yes! And there was this noble and Gregoire stood up for me and it was the perfect distraction I didn’t see I was just-” It was hard to decide how he felt about this new development. On the one hand, it was going to be hard news to break to Legrand. On the other, the part was _his_ now. It was always supposed to be his and it was just the Maker’s divine justice that had lead to-Katrine sobbed into his chest, pulling on his collar. _Ow_.

“Katrine, he was just some shem-” She wasn’t usually this melodramatic, the assassin must have truly shaken her.

“That’s not the point!” She wailed in distress, cornflower blue eyes wide and overflowing with tears that streamed down her pale cheeks. “The assassin wasn’t after him, Renard! He was after you!”

Renard leaned back against the wall of the bakery behind them and caught his breath. That…simply wasn’t possible. He hadn’t pissed off anyone rich enough to send assassins after him, at least not in recent memory. Katrine was fishing something out of her leathers, talking as fast as she could manage so all the words were running together in a panicked flurry.

“There was a chantry woman, she wanted to give you a message, I think, but she didn’t know it was Gregoire-”

“The stupid shem grabbed the wrong mask-” Renard grunted as she thumped him hard in the chest, glaring at him.

“Stop calling him a ‘stupid shem’! He died helping me! It could have been you-”

“It wasn’t. So let’s stop worrying and try to figure out-”

“There’s nothing to figure out. The assassin, he got away but he left this-” She held out a small bundle to him, a messy lump of feathers and blood. He took it carefully and examined it, feeling his heart sink: A dead sparrow dangled from a noose of blue ribbon, miniscule beak open in a parody of song.“It’s-”

“I know what it is.” Of course, of course it was her. Who else could it be? “You said there was a chantry sister?”

“Yes! She was pretty and she had a templar with her, kept her eyes on Gregoire the whole time. When he was murdered…the assassin looked _right_ at her, Renard. He had to know she was up to something, the message was for her. But the templar wasn’t fast enough to catch him. It was professional-”

“To be sent after Felicienne, he would have to be.” He closed his fingers over the dead bird and looked down at his little sister, unfastening his mask and handing it to her. “Take this, don’t put it on. Go back to the opera house and tell them what’s happened. Tell them I’ll be right back.”

Katrine held the leather mask against her chest protectively, her plush bottom lip trembling as she held back tears, dark lashes stark against her high cheekbones. He pulled her into another quick hug, kissing her on her forehead and brushing the tears out of her eyes.

“Kat, it’s alright, don’t cry.”

“Do you think Felicienne’s dead?” Katrine had known Felicienne since she was a little girl with nothing but older brothers to look up to in a time when all she wanted was a sister and female confidante. Renard grit his teeth a little to hear the wavering in Katrine’s voice, the childish hope. Felicienne had never been who Katrine thought she was, had never even been who _he_ thought she was. It was too much to hope that Felicienne had changed, that she would change, and see it come to naught.

“No, petit chausson. She’s alive and well.” _She always is._ “I’m going to go find her.”

* * *

Felicienne tipped her head back against the marble counter and smoothed the sea sponge over the bare skin of her throat and down her chest, leaving her skin glistening in it’s wake. Her long legs crossed at the ankle, she dipped the sponge back into water so hot it still steamed slightly and brought it to her collarbone, squeezing it and luxuriating in the cascade of warm water down her back and shoulder. She longed to sink into the massive tub and soothe away any lingering stress but regrettably, she was trying to keep her bandages from getting wet. The wound was healing miraculously fast, thanks to the healing magic of a mage from Montsimmard, but it still hurt. She reached down and picked up a small cake of soap full of rose petals, massaging it into a pale pink foam across her legs before reaching over and picking up a straight razor, opening it with a satisfyingly ominous snick before carefully running it over her skin.

The beautification routine was an indulgence, something to make her feel calm when she was anything but. Sending a chantry sister to Renard had been a risk, even with Arielle’s attempts to make the meeting and it’s source as untraceable as possible with go betweens. A surfeit of spies simply meant that everyone was tripping over one another, however, and guaranteed nothing. If anything, it meant more leaks. But telling Arielle to change tactics when she was so sure of their efficacy was a fruitless endeavour. The sister would be safe, especially with a templar to guard her. But anonymous drops would have been better, easier, safer for everyone involved. Felicienne did not like leaving this up to Arielle who for all her skill at the Game, was no bard. She was not a spy and for all she favoured her girls (somehow still beholden to her even now that their Madam had moved on to airier and holier climes) and allotment of chantry sisters, none of her informants were particularly good at going unnoticed. Distractions and reconnaissance? They were the very best. But stealth…simply wasn’t their forte.

The door to the bathing chamber slammed open and Felicienne lunged out of the bath and onto the woven mat beside the marble tub, flinging the straight razor at the door in the same movement. She snatched for the towel at the edge of the counter, prepared to fling it at her opponent and blind them temporarily while she-it was one of Arielle’s sisters, shocked and staring open mouthed at the razor buried in the wood inches from her delicate hand. Felicienne’s nose wrinkled in distaste; it was a poor shot in which she’d failed to account for the bad angle. Lucky for the sister, though. The girl let out a yelp of horrified surprise and flinched in on herself, bunching up in the chantry robes that were miles to big for her and sobbing for breath.

“Oh! Oh my lady, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you I-” Felicienne snatched up the pale blue towel and wrapped herself in it, toweling dry as fast as she could and speaking over the girl’s frenetic mumbling.

“What is it? Where is Sister Melanie?”

“Oh! She is with the Reverend Mother, my lady. She and Ser Laurent are-”

“How did it go?” The young girl’s breath caught and she shook her head, her eyes full of tears. Felicienne felt her heart sink, suddenly dizzy and nauseous with fear clawing at her throat like a strangling vine. _No. No, please. Maker, please. Not him…_ She dropped the towel and snatched up the spare pair of chantry robes wrapping them around her body carelessly and jarring her wound as she did so. “Where are they?”

“They’re in the chapel, my lady-” Felicienne snatched the straight razor from the door frame and edged the sister out the door with it, glaring at her the whole time. “My lady-?!”

“You go first. Take me there. You walk between me and those windows-” She gestured with the blade, her movements sharp and clipped. “Move.”

* * *

When the sister finally opened the door to the large room with it’s cavernous interior and all the beauty a wealthy chantry could ever hope to accumulate, dominated by the elaborate altar depicting Andraste on her pyre, everything that had always made Felicienne feel so safe, the razor shook in her grip. Her heart pounded so loudly she felt it beat a tattoo against her temple, beating as desperately as a bird’s wings against the cage of her ribs. They walked down the center of the elegant room, between the rows and rows of maplewood pews, steps muffled by the thick blue carpet. There was a bad taste in Felicienne’s mouth, the faint smell of roses from her bath and lavender from the fresh robe did nothing to calm her frantic senses. Even as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room’s candlelit interior, she still felt like she was walking to the gallows.

Arielle stood, her hands clasped behind her back and her expression grim even in the halflight. She and Ser Laurent stood like sentinels before an altar where a body lay draped in a sheet, sister Melanie sobbing so loudly it echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. The razor fell to the floor with a clatter and Felicienne didn’t even bother to pick it up, to be cautious around the sister she’d forced to bring her here; fleeing past her as fast as her legs would carry her. Arielle stepped aside to let her pass and she felt the sob threatening to burst from her, reached out a shaking hand to-

“Felicienne, ma petit oiseau-” Arielle began, her soft voice a balm to Felicienne’s frayed nerves. _Please, please, let it not be_ -the dissonant strange, staccato sound of a single person applauding rudely interrupted her panic, echoing around the holy temple in mockery of her. Felicienne turned, bracing herself against the dias, against the byre upon which lay yet another dead lover and bared her teeth. Let her assassin’s come, she would fight. She would show them what it meant to corner a bard of Orlais.

“Who are you? Villain! Show yourself!” A figure melted out of the shadows closer to the Chantry’s door, hooded and walking with quick and quiet steps, clapping slowly and steadily. Something about the jaunty, careful steps, mincing like a cat’s, felt familiar. Felicienne’s breath caught. Beside her, Ser Laurent, his armour gleaming in a stark contrast to the strangers dull leathers, stepped forward and unsheathed his sword with a threatening rasp of metal.

“Well, well. All this crying over a Ferelden shem wearing my mask. I have to hand it to you, Felici. Those tears look real.” What?! Felicienne spunned and ripped the sheet off a body that…most definitely was not Renard’s.

“You’re alive!!” She turned and threw herself down the steps, Renard barely had time to throw back his hood as she crashed into him with all her strength. Renard stiffened in her arms, catching her elbows and carefully distancing himself. It wasn’t quite the warm welcome she’d expected but she was too relieved to care. “Oh, Renard! Or, do you call yourself Victor? I can’t remember which stage name-”

“Renard is fine, Boyet would be better-” He did not sound as pleased to see her as she had hoped he would be. For the Maker’s sake, it had only been four or five years since- Arielle cleared her throat loudly and spoke over him, turning to her templar and the two remaining sisters.

“Laurent, please go make sure to put better guards on all the doors. Sister Melanie, we will need to change the locks again, considering this thief was able to walk so freely into our midst-” Renard stepped away from Felicienne and shook his head, pointed ears pinned back aggressively and his arms crossed over his chest. He waved at Arielle, baring his teeth in a sneer.

“Oh hello, Arielle. Last time I saw you, the Chantry robe was just a costume you put on for special guests. Glad to see they let you keep it, though you’ve certainly made it look a bit more conservative.” Felicienne rolled her eyes, her relief that Renard was alive fading in the wake of the rekindled rivalry between her adoptive mother and her…friend. Arielle looked imperiously down at the elven actor in her presence, giving a derisive snort and flicking them hem of her robe in a dismissive gesture.

“Boyet, you could spend your whole miserable life picking pockets and performing for your betters and never see enough coin to validate that statement. If you wish to insult me, you must try harder.” Arielle turned to the scandalised Sister Melanie and glowered. “Sister, I just instructed you to-”

“Yes, Reverend Mother! I’m sorry, Reverend Mother.” Sister Melanie rushed off, bustling past Felicienne and Renard with a cursory quick nod of her head and rushing the other sister out ahead of her. Arielle pulled herself up to her full height and, with stately grace, brought her hands together in her most regal and holy pose.

“Now, we will not be having this conversation here-”

“Actually, you and I won’t be talking at all, Arielle. I am here to speak to Felicienne.” Renard slunk over to one of the pews and plopped down in a disrespectfully cavalier gesture, waving his hand dismissively. “You can see yourself out, _Mother_.”

“As if she could actually benefit from some _criminal’s_ help-” Arielle bristled, practically spitting with irritation. Renard glared at her, amber eyes gleaming copper in the halflight.

“Why don’t you just say ‘elf’ Arielle, we all know that’s what-” Felicienne lay a hand on Renard’s arm and watched the words die in his throat. He let out a huff of breath and slouched in the pew, wrapping his arms around his middle and staring at the floor. Felicienne turned to Arielle and opened her mouth to ask her to leave, only for the woman to hold up a hand and shake her head.

“If this is what you want, ma petit oiseau, I certainly will not get in the way of your plans. I will be in my apartments when you are ready to speak with someone civilised.” Stately and refined as any empress, Arielle stormed from the chapel, glorious robes dragging across the floor behind her as she left the room and shut the great double doors, leaving them in the echoic silence of the chamber.

Felicienne moved to sit next to Renard, feeling a flicker of hurt when he not only made room for her but moved to put some distance between them. She had been trying to think what she would say to him when she saw him again, how her apology would begin. Or well, not an apology but an explanation. Renard was so emotional, so dramatic that sometimes he didn’t see as far ahead as she did. She smoothed the robe over her knees, noting with dismay that it was still somewhat rumpled and unkempt. In her fear for…her fear for her plan going awry, she had been too panicked to fix it. Renard cleared his throat and passed her a small bundle of cloth, staring bleakly ahead. A gift? She took it from him carefully, bringing it into her lap.

“They left this for you.” She unfolded the handkerchief and brought her hand to her mouth, stifling her gasp. A dead sparrow, tiny claws curled tight around the empty air and breast feathers ruffled. She reached down and stroked them back into place, feeling tears prick her eyes. “Felicienne. Tell me what’s happening.”

“It’s nothing, really. It’s a long story that doesn’t-” Renard chuckled and it was a strangely brittle thing that caused her words to catch in her throat. His handsome face was cast in light and shadow from the wavering red votives and pillar candles, every tongue of flame dancing in the reflection of the stained glass windows. He clasped his hands, elbows resting on his knees and head and back bowed. He wouldn’t even look at her and yet, she fell silent, cowed by just this wry expression of bitter mirth. He had always been able to do that to her, forestall her before she could complete her artifice.

“You always take a breath right before you lie to me, Felicienne. You always prepare like you’re going to launch into song. I wish you wouldn’t.” His voice was soft in the silence of the chapel, a whisper with as much presence as a shout.

“You wish I wouldn’t sing?” She tried to smile at him, but the words came out choked and stiff. Renard let out a long sigh, glanced over at the dead bird she held in her hands. The poor little thing…it had never done anything to deserve such a cruel end. It was dead to prove a point, to make a statement.

“Stop looking at it like that, it’s just a bird. There’s a dead man right there and you’re more upset about the bird-

“The bird didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

“Oh? And the man did? Gregoire was an annoying, smug, fool of a man but I doubt he deserved to be stabbed by assassins looking for me. If it were me on that slab, would you even-”

“Renard! Stop it! You’re alive and I’m alive and just-! Don’t be so…don’t be so beastly!” Her heart was pounding again, upsettingly hard in her chest and she could feel colour coming to her cheeks. _Felicienne, be calm. Play the Game. Don’t let some_ thief _get to you._ She could hear Albain’s words as if he were alive again and speaking them to her, could hear the way he always laced the word ‘thief’ with poison. Renard and Albain had loathed each other. Arielle called it jealousy, but it was hard to imagine either of them being jealous of each other’s lives.

“Ah, yes. It’s me being _beastly_. If it were Albain, he’d just be arguing a point but if it’s me-” Felicienne was suddenly keenly aware of why she’d stayed away for so long, why she’d known this conversation would be difficult.

“Let it go, Renard.” She muttered bitterly, ignoring his scoff and gritting her teeth. “I suppose you’ll be pleased to know that Albain is…is dead.”

Her voice nearly cracked on the word ‘dead’ but she managed to salvage it. Not court worthy, not yet; but getting better every day. Renard stared at her, scrutinizing her face for any minute change in expression. She wished she was wearing her mask, not so much to hide behind but to feel confidence. How could Renard always make her feel so bare, like she was standing before the Maker himself and confessing every sin? Felicienne set the dead bird aside and wrapped her arms around her body to still her shivering. It was cold inside the chantry, cold and distant as a blade.

“Who killed him?” _He’s not surprised. Why would he be? Bards die all the time._ Felicienne took a deep breath, only for Renard to interrupt her immediately: “ _You_ killed him?! Maker’s balls, Felicienne! Does Arielle know?”

Felicienne didn’t say anything, but brought the heel of her hand up to brush at her cheeks. There was no point in hiding how Albain’s death had affected her, Renard already knew everything there was to know. He was the only one who knew everything, in truth. Besides, of all the things Renard had always, always been unable to resist; tears were her most powerful weapon. She felt his hand fall on her shoulder and looked up at him, sniffing and feeling her lip tremble. Despite all her years and years of training devoted to hiding her emotions, hiding her motives and her tells and anything that would give an enemy an edge against her, it was an overwhelming relief to look at someone and have them guess correctly all she could not voice. Renard reached up and cupped her jaw, brushing away an errant tear with the gentlest touch of his thumb against her cheek-

Suddenly he was standing up, his touch gone so fast she was left reeling and unbalanced. _What did I do wrong?_ He stood there, arms folded and glaring at her, tension in all the lithe strength of his body.

“No. No, I won’t do this again. What do you _want_ from me, Felicienne?” She stood up followed him as he stormed away from her, reaching for his arm. _No, no. He couldn’t leave, this was her last chance to-_

“Renard! Victor, please-” He turned on her and she backpedaled to avoid slammed into him, standing her ground with her fists balled at her sides.

“Don’t-! Just don’t call me Victor. Please, spare me the song and dance of the clever Lady Sparrow and let’s just get on with this. You always want something; tell me what it is so I can go back to living my own life.” Maker, he sounded so cold. _Forgive me, please._ Maybe, if she just went about it like nothing was wrong, like nothing had changed he would be content to forget his anger…

“You’ll help me? Oh, Renard, thank-”

“No, don’t thank me. There are assassins after you, what do you want me to do about it? I’m just some two bit thie- _actor_ , what protection could I possibly offer a bard?”

“I just need passage out of Verchiel, if someone could smuggle-”

“You want _me_ , you want _my family_ to endanger themselves by smuggling you away under the cover of night? Firstly, no. It’s impossible. Niket, Tannis and Sedran haven’t lived in Verchiel for years and they’re the only ones who could have managed it. We could set false leads with caravans and persons leaving Verchiel who aren’t the Guild but that hardly buys you any time at all. Katrine is-”

“Katrine! Oh, ma petit chausson-” Felicienne felt her heart jump to her throat with hope before she could quell it. She and Katrine had always been the best of friends, if Renard failed to help maybe she could-the thought died when she saw Renard’s glower.

“Katrine is seventeen years old, Felicienne. Stay away from her.” Alright, that was it. She didn’t deserve this, to be talked to like this, to have Renard of all people tell her how morally wrong she was for just trying to survive. She snatched the crossed leather straps on his chest and jerked him forward, glaring up at him.

“Stop being such an ass. If you won’t help me, Renard, I will have to do this myself.” He snorted, gently untangling her fingers from his clothes and shaking his head. At least he had the decency to look embarrassed and somewhat taken aback.

“Walk out of this chantry and your hunters will kill you before you even make it fifty paces. Stay here and they’ll eventually find a way in.” He was right, damn him. She crossed her arms over her chest and let out a huff of breath.

“Well? Do you have a better idea? If you cant smuggle me out-” Renard was no longer even looking at her but at the corpse still occupying the slab at the head of the chapel. “-I won’t play dead or any such nonsense so don’t even-”

“I don’t want you to fake your death, Felicienne. Besides, you’re too argumentative to make a convincing dead body.” He walked past her, tapping a finger against his lips and pacing back and forth. “Are your noble contacts still intact?”

“Yes, but they’re not going to help me dodge assassins, Renard.That’s not how the Game works-” She watched him stride back and forth in front of her, fingers twitching and ears perked. Renard was a man to whom movement, constant and unrelenting, helped him process. Even if he was being annoying vague about what he was processing, the old habit from their childhood years soothed her nerves.

“But you have blackmail material on them, don’t you? Most of them?”He glanced up at her, tapping at his chin and pausing for a moment.

“Yes, but if I try to blackmail them they will be so insulted I’m sure they will willing _give_ me to the assassins. Besides I…I don’t know how many of them it’s still safe to try and contact.” The answer was ‘not many’. But letting him know that this early was counterproductive.

“But you have a few? One’s you’re sure about? Any in Val Royeaux?”

“Renard. I am not going to the heart of Orlais to-” Going to Val Royeaux would be the end of her, she needed to go in the opposite direction. Lay low in the countryside, avoid the public eye until she could figure out where she stood. Renard let out a frustrated sigh, his Orlesian accent thickening with his distress.

“Listen, if I am going to help you you’re going to have to give me something in return. My play, the play whose lead is now dead meaning I get the part-” Felicienne resisted the urge to complain that she was currently running for her life and had no time to do favours, especially not for Renard’s acting hobby, watching him pace on the verge of some sort of planning breakthrough. “-it was just going to be a small performance, just here in Verchiel. But if you can put in a good word for-”

“I’m not an art critic! What if you’re horrible?” He glared at her and she rolled her eyes.

“Felicienne, this is not a horrible play. I know because I wrote it, I’m performing it. I don’t know how you can say that to me, you’ve seen-”

“I saw a boy practicing lines while doing handstands on a storm drain and reciting poetry while perched on a chimney. Besides, I don’t see how the play is supposed to help me.” He took her hands in his and grinned, a roguish, heartbreaker’s smirk.

“It’ll get us- _all of us_ -out of Verchiel. Whoever is out to get you will never expect you to join an acting troupe, of all things.”

“Of course they won’t! It’s an idiot plan! I’ll be caught immediately!”

“We plant false leads, make them chase them and by the time they think to check the chantry again, you’re in the furthest possible thing from the Maker’s house.” She stared at him aghast for a moment and heaved a deep sigh. He squeezed her hands, his excitement palpable.

“Renard…”

“Please, Felicienne.” She met his eyes and her breath caught at the earnesty she saw there, such a rare thing to find in the heart of Orlais. “Trust me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my good lord this chapter was a struggle! Huge thanks to @vir-ghilani and @fauxfelix and @donutsteal for their tireless reading and rereading.
> 
> Big thanks and shoutout to Eldritch and crew (especially @robinundead ) for their help naming Gregoire, whose whole name sadly never appeared here but was, properly Gregoire Adelard Lammie du Baroque Esq. the III.
> 
> Yes, Katrine’s nickname is indeed Little Slipper/Shoe. Or at least, that is what it’s supposed to be. Excuse me while I mangle french

**Author's Note:**

> Scion canon as a whole was and remains a collaboration between me and the user saarebitch on tumblr. The headcanons for the Black Tongue are my work.


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